


Untouchable Darkness

by belial



Series: Argentisms [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Food Kink, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belial/pseuds/belial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grocery shopping causes health hazards.  Who knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untouchable Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the fandom, characters, etc. I make no profit from this. 
> 
> Warnings: Chris Argent is married to Victoria still in this universe. Therefore, this fic deals with the prospect of infidelity. (But really, how could anyone turn down a sociopath as adorable as Peter?) 
> 
> Notes: Chris Argent’s POV. I do not remotely try to follow canon with this. I also made Peter three years younger. This started off as humor and then got super-serious. I’ll try to lighten it up in future stories. Title courtesy of Rob Zombie’s _Demon Speeding_.

“I’m not impressed by the size of your selected cucumbers.”

I don’t bother trying to contain my amusement; the laughter bubbles free as I deposit the bag of tiny pickling cucumbers into the cart. “Allison’s got some sort of home economics project involving produce,” I say, when I can breathe. 

“Yes, I know,” Peter replies, and how he manages to keep a straight face is beyond me when he holds up a zucchini and says, “Yet I seem to have gotten the better end of the shopping list.”

Smiling for a man like Peter Hale is bad. Foolish. Hazardous to my health. And yet: “I’m also supposed to get carrots and celery. You seem to have gotten the more exciting vegetables.”

I gesture to the zucchini, the crook-neck yellow squash, and the red onion in his basket. “Dare I ask what they’re making?”

“I didn’t want to know,” he says. He looks ridiculously young today, in jeans and a rumpled tee-shirt and sneakers, with sunglasses propped on top of his head to hold his hair out of his face. “Once Stiles started swooning over the idea of cooking with Lydia Martin, I grabbed the shopping list and ran for my life.”

“I’m sure that went over well with Derek.”

“Stiles is a little shit and does these things on purpose to rile my nephew’s jealousy. The new furniture’s never going to last at this rate.”

I cringe, shuddering against the idea of Stiles having sex. “Jesus. I never needed that mental picture.”

“Try listening to it live and in person.”

“No. Just… no.”

He laughs. When I open my eyes again, he’s practically burrowed into my side, as close as he can get without physically touching me. “That’s a strange list you’ve got,” he says. “Vinegar? Garlic?”

“They’re making pickled vegetables.”

“Or averting a vampire invasion,” he says. “Of course, vampires don’t exist.”

I cross my arms over my chest and wish I wasn’t in such a public place. I nudge him in the side with my elbow in a bid for space and say, “Of course. Because believing in _vampires_ would be silly.”

Peter, who has no concept of personal space, leans in again. Softly, he murmurs, “Of course, you’d probably look good holding a stake and wearing a cheerleading uniform.”

“For fuck’s sake, what,” I say, grimacing. “Where did that come from?”

He blinks at me, eyes flashing blue for half a second before he grins and… _and fucking giggles like a little kid_. “Oh my God, you live with a teenage girl,” he gasps. “How have you not heard of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”

“Who?”

He digs into his pants pocket and I stiffen until I realize he’s digging for an I-Phone. He taps at the screen and then flips the phone around so I can see it. He’s Googled _Buffy_ and I’m faced with a blonde cheerleader who is, in fact, slaying vampires. “You’re even blond,” he says, and I scowl at him. “And you’d look great in that uniform.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t need to know your kinks, Peter,” I deadpan, trying to peddle away from the awkwardness of the conversation. “Besides which, I’m a married man.”

He taps his nose. “But in spite of your fervent declarations of innocence, you can’t lie to me. I can _smell_ how much my kinks get you going. Unless you’re concerned about your… cucumber?”

I groan, rub at my face with one hand. “My cucumber’s more than adequate,” I reply. “Jesus, are you five?”

“I’m certain I would’ve flirted with you even at the tender age of five,” he says, and grins again. “You’d have been a very pretty first kiss.”

“Peter…”

“And we wouldn’t have had any baggage between us, when we were five. That’s the crux of the problem for you, isn’t it?”

I glance around the aisle, grateful we’re semi-alone. I murmur, “You mean, the problem where you murdered my sister?”

“Or the problem where your sister murdered everyone I ever loved, leaving me… like this,” he says. “Everyone tells me how damaged I am, and it’s not like I care. But still. Six years, I’ve been sleepwalking, and it’s my nephew and those _damn kids_ that keep waking me up and making me _feel things_ again, and then, not only do I find myself _liking_ that child-assassin of yours, but _you_ in the _pajamas_ and I _can’t stop thinking about it_ …”

He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff and I can’t help looking at him up and down again, watching him dig his hands into the pockets of his jeans like an awkward teenager. “How old are you, Peter?”

“Thirty-three. Why?”

I swallow. Hard. Even at forty-two, I can’t imagine what my life would be like losing Allison, and here he was – this young man of twenty-seven, watching everyone he’d ever loved die horribly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What Kate did, it’s not… it’s not who I am.”

His eyes widen and he steps back. “I wasn’t saying you were like her,” he says, and now he’s glancing around as though checking for witnesses and looking for exits. “I wasn’t. I can’t… Look. I finally got to the point where they trust me again, I can’t…”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “Jesus, I’m not accusing you of anything, Peter. It’s just, compared to me, you’re practically one of those teenagers you live with. And I won’t do to you what Kate did to Derek.”

That comment stops him up short. He blinks, and blinks again, and asks, “I thought you were, like, thirty-eight, tops?”

“Forty-two.”

“Also, this would only be a Kate andDerek relationship if you were trying to seduce me, and it wasn’t me trying to seduce you because you’re ridiculously hot.”

 _Ridiculously hot?_ I mouth, and he scowls. “Cut me some slack, I live with teenagers. Though, now that you mention it, I sound like _Stiles_. I think I want to die.”

Peter makes a face like he would’ve rather discovered he was drinking wolfsbane punch and dancing in a tutu and for some reason, I find it hilarious. I double over laughing, ignoring the way he glares, and clutch at my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I say, when I stop laughing. Until he makes another face and I start up again. “Stop looking at me like that!”

He sulks and stalks away, takes to glaring at a display of oranges instead. When I can breathe, I walk over to him. “Peter. This won’t work.”

“I know,” he says. He slumps like all of his muscles are cut. “I’ll figure out how to get over it.”

That wasn’t what I meant, but the look of complete and utter dejection – and when did I stop being immune to pathetic looks? – forces a sigh from my chest. “I meant, you stomping away emphasizes our age difference. You might be thirty-three, but you missed so much of your young life, you’re technically still a kid.”

“You’re not exactly one foot in the grave.”

Telegraphing my intention, I slowly lift my hand and touch his arm. “Thank you for that,” I say. I squeeze his arm. “Why don’t we finish our shopping together and just talk?”

“What good would that do?” he asks, but I notice he unconsciously moves closer instead of pulling away from my grasp.

“Well… I normally don’t pursue people I’m not friends with.”

His eyes flash brilliant blue as he snaps his gaze to my face. “What?”

My heart’s beating so hard that I know it gives away my anxiety; I can’t believe I’m about to say what I say, but out spills, “I don’t want to be some older crush for you, Peter, especially since our families are completely intertwined in each other’s lives. I want to know you.”

The sociopathic, egomaniacal, psychotic wolf is nowhere to be seen in the boy (man?) in front of me. He’s trembling, eyes, wide, panting through an open mouth. He says, “You do?”

“Yes,” I say. I touch his arm again, raise my hand gently to trace the muscle up to his shoulder, then tug his ear. “Come on. I’ll even let you stare at the eggplants, if you’re good.”

My joke, pitiful as it is, startles a laugh from him, and it breaks the insane tension between us. He giggles, swats my hand away, and grabs for his basket. “That was terrible.”

I shrug, and don’t comment when he walks with me toward the milk and eggs.


End file.
